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daniel w.k. lee


La Cocina

Framed by Spanish eyes,
they'll eat pieces of him
like tapas
with coarse
mouths and wicked
tongues, planting bites
like kisses.

He'll roast in the heated
purr of R -

          back arched like
          a down-turned parenthesis

          fork fingers cleaved to
          ass, rolling nakedness
          like choice meats on
          cooking spits

          the temperature just shy
          of gourmet.

Across the ocean, he'll
lust like Lorca between
ceviche-white teeth
that'll chew his nipples
like uncured olives
while here
in this house,

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